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I had no reason to suspect I was pregnant; my period was only a day or two late. But all weekend, I just didn't feel right. So first thing Monday morning, I took a pregnancy test.
Positive.
I felt as though a lightning bolt struck me. The test couldn't be right. Two years earlier, my husband, Joe, had had a vasectomy. Joe and I'd been married seven years, and we already had two children—a four-year-old daughter and a not-quite-two-year-old son. We were convinced our family was complete; at 39 and 33, Joe and I felt too old for new-baby all-nighters again.
Then cold fear squeezed my heart: I was on Accutane, a prescription acne medication known to cause severe birth defects.
The rest of the day was a blur of raw emotion and overwhelming worry. My physician rushed me into her office and verified the home-pregnancy test results. She referred me to a genetic counselor, telling me not to make any decisions till I saw her. She never said "abortion," but she alluded to it.
My husband and I grew up believing and loving God. We were convinced abortion was murder. How could anyone kill a helpless baby just because the child was "inconvenient"? That's what I thought—until God rocked my world that February morning.
Days later, we met with the genetic counselor. Based on my age, my relatively short time on Accutane (two months), and my forgetting to take two doses the week I conceived, the genetic counselor told us our chances of having a baby with severe defects were 30 percent. Then she described the drug's potential effects: organ defects, malformed head, misshapen ears, or no ears at all. She said we needed to decide whether to go through with the pregnancy. Horrified, my brain shut down. Joe was in a state of shock. I cried. Joe held me but didn't say much. What could he say?
Next I saw the dermatologist who'd prescribed the medication; he told me horror stories about babies whose mothers had been on Accutane, and pleaded with me to abort. Pulling myself together, I assured him that I'd consider this option, but that I wasn't ready to make a decision.
The genetic counselor had said I was likely to miscarry. So for a few weeks, I clung to that hope. If God would take the baby, I wouldn't have to agonize over my decision. It would be out of my hands. But the pregnancy continued. I had morning sickness. I gained weight. And I didn't miscarry.
I passed Planned Parenthood's office one day as I drove home from work. It would be so easy to go in there, take care of this problem, and go on with my life, I thought. Who could condemn me for making such a painful decision?
But suddenly, I realized I'd been trying all along to answer the wrong question. The question wasn't, "Should I have an abortion?" but, "Do I trust God?" Everything became clear: I'd told God he was Lord of my life. Now I needed to act on that belief.
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